Shakespeare Told Our Tale
by Oeil du Soleil aka The Critic
Summary: He asked, How do we know when to kill and when not to? She said, What if we don't? What if we shouldn't? He replied, Oh, no, we're killing anyway. Rated safely.
1. Not A Mouse Stirring

**Author's note: Um, so, I was so excited about this story. We're reading Hamlet in English and I got so inspired. Here's the first chapter to see if you like it. I hope you do.**

**If you've read Hamlet, then you might understand this a bit more. I don't know. It's very loosely based.**

**Disclaimer: I own only my limitless imagination.**

**Chapter 1**

**_And then it started like a guilty thing  
Upon a fearful summons. –William Shakespeare (Hamlet)_**

He was Draco Malfoy.

_The _Draco Malfoy. Arrogant badass who didn't take grief from anyone. Tall, thin, white blonde hair, grey malevolent eyes. Just like his father It was obvious he placed himself above everyone else in the Wizarding World (possibly even Voldemort). It wasn't as if he was all talk and no walk. The boy was smart. Cunning. Wicked. Manipulative. He got what he wanted.

_Always _

He was a young man of sixteen. Fresh out of his sixth year at Hogwarts. He was in his prime! The girls wanted him, the universities wanted him, _Voldemort _wanted him. His nose was always in the air and his lips always set in a self satisfied smirk. His clothes cost an ungodly amount, and he knew it. He _flaunted _it. He was first priority. He graced _others _with his presence.

That's how we find him now. Reclining in the plush seat of the Hogwarts Express, idly watching his "friends" chatter about their upcoming holiday. He carelessly slung an arm around Pansy Parkinson's shoulder, smirking at her excitement.

The rain poured steadily, pounding on the windows and prohibiting any vision. Every once in awhile, the lightning flashed, casting a sliver of light onto Draco's pale face.

He told a joke. A particularly lame one, but a joke.

They laughed. They were supposed to.

He loved how they adored him. How they worshipped him. How they would follow him off the edge of a cliff if he asked them to. Merely to remain in his good graces.

They were supposed to.

He turned his ever wandering attention to the window. He thought about his holiday, and what awaited him at the Manor. Actually, he didn't wonder, he _knew._ Lavish trips, new clothes, dinner parties, and constant doting from his mother and father.

"…promise, Draco?"

"Huh?" was the intelligent reply.

"I said," Pansy reiterated, "Write this summer. Promise, Draco?"

_Write?_ The girl asks this every year, and every year he writes about one letter, and the claims to be busy. Why should this year be any different? "Sure, Pansy," he said, flashing a charming smile.

She smiled back, of course, and stood up. Giving each of the people in the compartment a hug, she heaved her trunk and left the train. It was only then that Draco noticed that the train came to a full stop. Draco grabbed his trunk, and shook hands with Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini. His friends.

He sauntered with confidence, through the train towards the door. He bumped, elbowed, and shoved any unfortunate first or second year to have the audacity to cross his path. He purposely broke up snogging couples, and hugging friends. He made special care to trip Granger and step on her fingers. He stepped onto the platform and was immediately welcomed with the sight of tearful "hellos" from mums and children.

Leaning against a wall, he lazily scanned the area for his parents. Minute by minute passed and the crowd cleared. Draco was no longer leaning against the wall, but standing straight, eyebrows furrowed.

He watched the Weasley clan with Potter leave through the barrier to Kings Cross. He briefly watched Pansy link arms with her mother towards the barrier, her father trailing behind with Pansy's trunk.

_Ten minutes._

Where were they? They never kept him waiting!

He resumed his cocky leaning and closed his eyes. _Maybe they got caught in traffic. The weather _is _horrible. _

Finally, _finally_ half an hour later he saw a familiar crown of golden hair glide its way over to Draco. That crown was followed by a regal face, almost mirroring his own.

_A single similar face_

It was his mother. His beautiful, loving mother. He frowned. She was late. When she saw him, her composed face broke into a bright grin, and she enveloped him in a surprisingly strong embrace. He wrapped his arms around her, letting her coo over him. _'So much taller, so handsome.' _or _'I missed you so! You're so skinny!' _

She didn't seem to want to let go. Draco got the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. He pulled away, holding her by the shoulders at arms length. He looked deeply into her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked quite bluntly.

Her eyes, her deep blue eyes, momentarily clouded, darkened. They slid out of focus and revealed a dark secret unfathomable to Draco. "Nothing," she said. She took his hand and led him to the family car.

_Tap, tap, tap_

The dying rain continued to fall as the car wove swiftly and smoothly on the tangle of roads piercing the countryside. Indistinguishable patterns from the raindrops formed on the window. Sliding, joining, separating, staining the glass. The weak thunder sounded nothing more than a hum.

"How was school this year?" Narcissa asked, desperate to break the choking silence.

"Good," her son replied, nodding his head slightly, "Came second in the class—again." He added somewhat bitterly.

He guessed he should've been used to it, by now. Granger beating him by a point, every year.

"To that Granger girl, I assume?" his mother asked in a tight voice.

Draco sighed heavily, "Yes, though I doubt Dad will take it quite as well as you are."

The thunder growled. The storm was coming back.

"Mmm," was all she said.

The rain picked up. The soft patterns on the window were replaced by angry drops, battling for dominance as they plummeted down the pane.

"Mum?" he asked quietly, hesitantly.

The skies darkened, and lightning was the only beacon of light. The thunder was roaring now. The rain hit the windows like bullets, as if trying to reach Draco. Trying to hurt him.

"Yes, dear?" she asked calmly, pleasantly. Draco, however, saw her clutching her purse, knuckles white.

He noticed

"Where's dad?"

They drove under a canopy of trees, and momentarily the rain couldn't hit the car. The inside was quiet.

"Honey," she said, slowly, deliberately. The rain hit again. This time, with a vengeance. The thunder shook the earth, and the wind screamed. When his mother spoke, it was so soft he had to lean towards her. Even then he couldn't hear her broken whisper. All he see were her lips moving. Mouthing the words that were about to rock the sturdiness of his world.

"He's dead."

He was Draco Malfoy.

He was the arrogant badass who didn't take grief from anyone. Tall, thin, grey malevolent eyes. Just like his father's

_He's dead_

He was always in control. Always cool, always composed. He was the replica of his dad.

_Who's dead_

He was Draco Malfoy.

He was first priority. He was admired. He was respected. He was worshipped.

That is, of course, until he went insane.

**Well, that's it. Please tell me if I should really continue this. Or is it a stretch? **


	2. The Memory Be Green

**Authors Note: So this is the second chapter, just to prove to you that I _do _intend on finishing this oh so amazing story. **

**I remember saying that you might understand this if you read _Hamlet_. What I meant to say was, I think that you might guess how the story _ends _if you read _Hamlet_. You could never have heard of Shakespeare and understand this story.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, save for this amazing story.**

**And without further ado, I give you…**

**The Memory Be Green**

**_With an auspicious and a dropping eye,  
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,  
In equal scale weighing delight and dole-William Shakespeare (Hamlet Act 1, Scene 2)_**

He didn't want to believe it at first. It didn't make sense. It was all wrong. His father, Lucius Malfoy, couldn't be dead. His dad was _always_ there for him. Supposed to be there forever. He was that strong, unbreakable force protecting Draco. His barrier, his support. He didn't want to believe it.

Returning to the Manor was like a punch in the stomach. The regal halls seemed haunted and empty. The portraits seemed to lack life. Moving only to follow Draco with their eyes. Stepping across the threshold felt like an iron grip on his heart. Against his will, his feet carried him through the house to his father's study. Papers, books, and quills lay scattered on the desk. The bookshelf remained particularly organized. His father's travelling cloak was carelessly tossed across an armchair. The air still smelled like him. It was as if, any moment, Lucius would come striding through the oak doors with purpose, ready to welcome his son home. The door did open, and only Lemy, the house elf, poked her small head in. Draco couldn't take it anymore. He left the room.

Once unpacked, and settled, Draco took his post at his window. The rain had stopped. The windows were still wet, and the clouds still hung in the sky. The wind breathed calmly, causing a branch to brush up against the glass.

_Swish, swish_

The window overlooked the garden. The stone path leading to the patch of roses, twisted constantly around and around the garden, eventually breaking off and encircling an open area, dotted with rose bushes.

_'That's where it happened' _she had said. _'I found him lying there, eyes open'_

She said this without a shudder, he noted. What the sight beheld must have been gruesome. If the eyes were open, they must have been glassy, empty, reflecting only the last moments they witnessed. Yet, she was nonchalant. She waved her hand carelessly in the general direction of the roses.

Then she left.

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Not one tear broke free from her eyes during the funeral. She stared at his father's casket, without seeing it. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Others took it as being riddled with grief. Numb with agony. Draco couldn't read her eyes, but he saw enough. Enough to know that she wasn't grieving.

Death Eaters showed up, offering their distant and detached condolences. They squeezed his shoulder and gave him insincere smiles of comfort. They hung their heads in sorrow to hide their twinkling eyes. They covered their faces to hide their lying grins. They sobbed to cover their laughter. What did they have to grieve for? Lucius Malfoy was a cold heartless bastard, right? True, he probably was, but not to Draco. He loved Draco and Draco loved him. Those Death Eaters, what did they know about Lucius Malfoy? He always had a mask of indifference on around them.

They didn't _know_ him like Draco did. They couldn't have.

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He couldn't sleep.

His eyes were so heavy. His body craved the much deserved rest. His bed was invitingly warm, heated by the fire which glowed softly. The day had worn him out completely. The funeral had lasted three tortuous hours. One after the other, they came. Strangers opened their mouths and spoke _epics_, it seemed, of Lucius. Spoke of him fondly and intimately. As if they were the closest of friends.

It didn't end there. After the funeral, hoards of people trekked back to Malfoy Manor. There, they feasted on finger sandwiches, wine, and each other's company. But, oh, not to find solace. Oh, no. To socialize. To gossip. To trade beauty secrets, to discuss the impending War. They came to take inventory of the Malfoy valuables.

Draco hated them all.

His mother was, again, amongst them. Not one line of grief etched her ethereal face. She smiled and laughed. Her eyes held no sadness. The only time she looked discontent was when her wine glass was empty. That being quickly remedied by a house elf.

He remembered a hand on his shoulder during this time. Looking up, he was relieved to see those kind dark eyes of Blaise Zabini.

"Draco," he said, conversationally. Draco merely nodded, taking another gulp of his drink. Firewhiskey.

"How you been holding up?" he asked, concerned. Draco looked up. It was genuine concern. No lies and no double meanings. His friend was worried.

Draco half smiled, raised his glass as in a toast, and downed the whole thing. Blaise merely watched, with a frown of disparagement. As Draco moved to pour some more, Blaise gently, but firmly took the glass out of his hands. "I guess that's my answer," he muttered.

They sat there. Minutes crept by, and they just sat there. Watching others carry on in jubilation. Draco made no effort to strike up conversation, and Blaise didn't push him. He merely sat next to his friend, making sure the Firewhiskey was out of reach.

A waltz played. Draco's face darkened into a scowl as Dolohov bent towards his mother. And with a sly smile on his face, he asked for a dance. Draco's scowl transformed into a sneer when his mother—who should be mad with grief—graciously accepted. It was then he decided to speak.

"He was killed, you know," he said lightly. Well, as lightly as he could, seeing as his heart felt of stone, drowning.

Blaise looked at him warily. For a moment he didn't reply. He didn't know what to say. It _was _a bit unsettling for his friend to be speaking of his father's murder as if it was the weather.

"Really," he decided to say, "When did you find this out?"

Draco scoffed a bit, "Isn't it obvious?" he asked incredulously, "Who just keels over a dies in the middle of a rose garden?"

Blaise wanted to approach this cautiously, "Do you know who did it?"

The blonde smirked. That trademark smirk was back. "No," he said slowly, "But I intend to find out."

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He couldn't sleep.

His mind was kicked into high gear. Over and over he ran through the situation. _His father was killed. Who did it? His father was killed. Who did it? _

Finally, accepting that sleep wasn't going to come anytime soon, Draco threw back the covers, and climbed out of bed. Stumbling and tripping through the dark, he grabbed his wand, and immediately muttered, "_Lumos._" He took the cloak off of his rack, and swept it on. As quietly as he could, he tiptoed to the door, and turned the knob.

_Creak_

Draco cringed as the door made such an ungodly noise opening. He poked his head out of the opening giving the desolate hall a meticulous glare. Satisfied that no one was going to jump him, he stepped out into the hallway and proceeded to the stairs. He made sure to keep is wand pointed low, so as to not wake the ornery portraits. Every now and then he could hear an angry hiss of, '_Mind that wand.' _Or, _'Get that blasted thing _out _of my face.' _He finally reached the half way point in his destination. The back gate. He pulled his cloak around him a bit tighter to shield from the light, but chilly wind that the storm left behind. His shoes splashed slightly in the puddles collected on the cobblestone path. Taking a deep breath, he began his walk. He had to duck under low branches, and avoid spare drops of still water clinging to leaves as the fell.

_Drip, drip, drop_

Grey eyes searched the whole garden for a sign, a clue, an _anything _that might help him in solving his father's murder. _Something_. But, alas, he found nothing. Dejectedly, he slumped on a stone bench and stared blankly ahead of him. What sense did it make to look for clues in the middle of the night? He buried his face in his hands, and bit back the scream that threatened to tear from his throat. It wasn't fair. Why Lucius, why _him_? He missed him so much. It hurt so much to think of life without his father. What he would giveto be able to see him again. What he would giveto speak to him, ask him questions that plagued his thoughts. Oh, what he would _give. _

Filling his lungs with the cool air, and sniffling a bit, he raised his head. What he saw then would make him do a double take. There, amongst the roses, standing tall and proud was his father.

His _father_

But it wasn't his father. It was like a shadow of what his father once was. This Lucius, this _presence_ wasn't Draco's father. Even though, he was dressed like Lucius Malfoy, had the same purposeful walk and that same look of complete disinterest on his face—it wasn't him. This Lucius had a pearly glow to him. He walked—no glided—about in a state of complete obliviousness. Draco looked to where he was standing. It was the same place his mother labelled as the spot where Lucius's body was found.

"Father," he said, softly.

The ghost, miraculously hearing him, turned and looked Draco dead in the eye with his dark empty orbs. The ghost looked Draco up and down, with a glimmer of a smile on his face.

With a slight nod, he closed his eyes and dissolved into nothing—and disappeared.

"Father?" Draco asked looking around, confused, "Father!" he yelled springing from the bench and running towards the rose garden. He was gone. Just like that. _I didn't even get to say something to him. _"FATHER!" he screamed, in complete anguish as once more, he felt that same stinging pain. He lost had Lucius, yet again.

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Back in a manor, not so far away, young Blaise Zabini was cursed with insomnia as well. Oh, but it wasn't for the same reason as his friend Draco. But still, Draco was much a reason.

"Egotistic bastard even takes over my thoughts," he muttered aloud as he paced his room.

What was irking him was the conversation they had at Lucius's wake. His buddy, his mate, his childhood friend, who had just lost his father, was convinced that Lucius was killed.

_Though, he probably was. No one just up and dies in the middle of a garden._

But not only that, he wanted to find the person responsible for the murder. Blaise was completely and totally convinced that Draco had had one too many glasses of Firewhiskey before he made this resolute statement. He was even _more _convinced when his life long buddy turned to him with those grey grey eyes set in cold determination, and said;

_"Will you help me?"_

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Soo, that was the second chapter. What did you think? I know, I know it's a bit dark now. And a bit angsty. Which is completely bizarre, since I don't do angst—ever. But you must realize for this story to be more believable, Draco must seem all angsty and emo. I mean, he just lost his father with whom he was v. close to. I _calls _for angst. **

**Embrace it.**

**Now, I promise that the story will lighten up. And it _is _a Dramione. Promise. It'll get there. But I need to set up the story.**

**Read and Review. Danke.**


	3. True Penny

**Disclaimer: Why break my heart and tell me what I don't own?**

**True Penny**

**_Foul deeds will rise,  
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.—Hamlet by William Shakespeare, Act 1, Scene 2_**

****

****

****

He waited.

He waited night and day for his father—or the ghost of his father—to return. His books lay forgotten and he did not reply to the letters from his friends. Not even the mandatory reply to Pansy.

His summer vacation had become a routine. He would rise, dress, eat breakfast, and make his way to the rose garden. There, he would sit patiently, waiting, watching, and hoping for a glimpse of his father's spirit. He took his lunch outside. Lemy, the house self was, of course, worried for him, but obeyed her master's commands. At dinner, he would leave the bench and sit restlessly in the dining hall while his mother chatted idly with him about her day. She had stopped asking about his day because it was the same every day.

After dinner, he would resume is post in the garden. That is where we found him last night. Sunset had long gone, and only the winking stars and the radiant moon provided light. Draco didn't know what time it was. He guessed around three in the morning. Time moved so slowly. Tediously slow. Hours slithered past, and Draco remained alert the whole time, never feeling fatigue. His senses set on high; he started at the slightest movement. A _swish _made his blonde head snap up and search anxiously. His face crumpled into a scowl when he saw it was only a mere squirrel. The squirrel raised its head and looked Draco square in the eye. Its nose twitched as it moved forward. It froze and in the blink of an eye, the squirrel vanished, shimmying up a tree. Draco continued to stare at the spot where the squirrel once was. He swallowed—hard. Looking up, his eyes widened at the pale figure three metres ahead of him. _Lucius Malfoy_.

He shot to his feet, never taking his eyes off of his father. He inched forward, slowly. His tongue was dry, and words (for the first time) failed him. The ghost did, however, acknowledge Draco with a curt nod. Suddenly, the ghost turned and made to leave. "Don't," Draco called out, "Don't leave."

The ghost paused, and looked at Draco. He raised a hand and looked towards the east, towards the rising sun. He lowered his hand, and nodded once more before turning and vanishing.

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"You what?"

"I _told _you," said the blonde boy, resuming his pacing. His friend, Blaise Zabini reclined comfortably in a chair at Malfoy Manor, while he watched his friend, eyebrows raised in amusement, "I saw my father's ghost." The blonde stopped, and looked at his friend expectantly.

"His _ghost _Draco?" Blaise deadpanned, "How could you have _possibly_ seen his ghost? To have his restless spirit still roam the Earth, like those in Hogwarts? That's just so—_unnatural_."

Draco glared at his friend, "That's not funny."

The darker boy chuckled, "I'm sorry, okay, okay, I'll be good. Now, keep talking." He rearranged his face into one of complete seriousness. Draco, mildly satisfied, continued, "You _do _know what this means, don't you?"

Blaise blinked. "It means you saw his ghost?"

Draco growled in exasperation and slumped into another chair. He buried his face in hands and the next words he spoke were a bit muffled, "It means that I can speak to him, now."

"Oh," said Blaise nodding his head, then his dark, slanted eyes widened, "_Oh!_"

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "Yeah—'oh'." He got up and began pacing again. Blaise resumed his observing and raised one perfect eyebrow, "So, you want to talk to your dead father?"

"Of course I want to talk to him, you dolt! He could tell me who murdered him!" Draco all but screamed.

Blaise wrinkled his nose, "Not that again, mate. I thought you got over the whole revenge thing." He got up from his chair and stood next to Draco, making him look Blaise in the eye. "I know you miss him but 'eye for an eye' is not always the answer."

Draco jerked away from his friend as if stung. _Not the answer? It wasn't Lucius's time to go! Damn it, it _is _the answer! _"Killing his murderer isn't going to bring your father back," said Blaise, quietly.

To his horror, Draco's eyes grew warm and moist. His sniffed and shook his head, "I know it won't, Blaise, but the bastard who killed him doesn't deserve to live."

The darker boy rubbed his temples, "I just don't want you to end up in Azkaban."

Draco studied Blaise's worried expression. He couldn't recall how many times his antics had put that same look on Blaise's face. At this rate, his aristocratic features would be prematurely lined before Draco gets a grey hair. Draco didn't know why Blaise put up with him like he did, but it went without saying that he was truly grateful.

"Blaise, you said you would help me," said Draco after awhile.

His friend grimaced, obviously regretting his promise, "I did, didn't I?" he said, his lips forming a half smile, "And I guess since Zabinis don't go back on their word, I'm essentially trapped, huh?"

Draco's face broke out into a legitimate grin for the first time since the funeral, "You are, mate. There's no way in hell you're slipping out, now."

Blaise let out a low laugh, happy to see the blonde do something other than scowl, "You cocky bastard. What do you need me to do?"

Draco turned and set his grey eyes right on Blaise's dark ones. All traces of mirth gone, and only seriousness, "I want you to come with me," he said lowly, "Tonight."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once again, the only light provided was the moon, which was full. This time, two boys, one dark and one fair, made their way out to the rose garden. Draco kept his eyes on the centre of the garden where that damned ghost made its maddeningly brief appearances. When they approached the bench, Draco flung himself unceremoniously onto the bench, while his friend sat cautiously, taking in every inch of his surroundings.

"Draco," he whispered.

"Yeah?" said Draco, not bothering to whisper.

"What time does the ghost usually appear?" he whispered, checking his watch.

Draco merely shrugged.

Blaise let out a huff, "Fine, does the ghost appear every night?"

"No."

"Do you know if it's going to appear tonight?"

"No."

He faced Draco, exasperation written all over his face, "Well, what do you--,"

"Shush," Draco said suddenly. He stood up, eyes trained to the apparition, "Do you see it?" he whispered.

"See what?" said Blaise, utterly perplexed. He looked around and saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"The ghost. _Lucius!_" he exclaimed. He watched the ghost intently, not wanting it to dash off again. This time, the ghost raised its hand and beckoned to him. Wasting no time, Draco obeyed and made his way to the centre of the rose garden.

Blaise stood up, "See _what_, Draco?" he cried, desperately. But his call fell on deaf ears as he watched his friend's retreating back. Draco rounded a corner and disappeared. Blaise slumped back onto the bench. What was going _on_? His friend, his best mate since the age of six was hallucinating. Blaise wasn't stupid. The fact that Draco was seeing is father's ghost was one thing, but the fact that Draco was the only soul who could see Lucius, was another thing _entirely_. He buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to believe that Draco was losing his sanity. No. He wasn't. He was just grieving. Grieving in a most—peculiar way.

Draco made his way back to the garden with a fire alight in his cool eyes. When Blaise saw him returning, he jumped to his feet and rushed to his friend, "Draco, are you alright? What did you see?"

Draco smirked. The most devious smirk Blaise had seen, "Come," he said to the dark boy, "We have work to do."

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Hermione Granger hated first years.

They were always causing trouble without the slightest bit of remorse. They were snotty and unbearably cheeky. She just couldn't _wait _until they were seventh years and had to deal with a new batch of sadistic eleven year olds. She grumbled this in her head as she docked points from some Hufflepuff first years for tormenting Mrs. Norris. Now granted, Mrs. Norris has these things coming, but do they not _know _that touching a hair on her head will invoke the wrath of Mr. Filch?

Okay, so she didn't hate them, she just really disliked them. They made the title of Head Girl extremely difficult and extremely unpleasant. She watched the little heathens run off completely unperturbed by losing points. Her day significantly ruined, Hermione hitched her bag a bit higher on her shoulder and made her way to her dorm. The Head's dorm, which was located an ungodly distance from practically everything else, was like a sanctuary. No one could get in without her permission. _She _set the password, and _she _made sure to tell no one. Not even Harry and Ron. The chatter of the Great Hall died away as she moved deeper into the castle and only the tapping of her shoes made a sound. To break the unsettling silence, she began to hum. Not in a particular tune, but a cheery tune, nonetheless. She stopped, however, when she heard another sound. Whispering. She slowed her pace enough so the _tap-tap-tapping _of her shoes wouldn't be as loud. The whispering grew into low muttering as she approached a corner. She placed her bag on the ground and peeked around the corner.

There was a boy with his back to her. He was muttering—to himself. Hermione craned her neck to try and get a better view. He was tall, and—oh God—he had that telltale blonde hair.

Hermione Granger really disliked Draco Malfoy.

Really, she did. She disliked him to the core. Yet, here he was, a few metres from _her _sanctuary, looking like a complete nutter!

"Tell me, Granger," said Draco quietly, "Is it a habit of yours to spy on others?"

Hermione gasped. He hadn't even turned around, yet! "I'll have you know Malfoy, that I am not spying, just trying to get back to my dorm," she said coolly.

He turned then, and pierced her with those eyes. She felt a shiver run through her body. She moved so that her head was no longer the only part of her body peeking around the corner. She drew herself to her full height. She glared at him with those brown eyes of hers, proving that she wasn't to be intimidated. As he made his way slowly towards her, she raised her chin defiantly, never breaking eye contact.

"Ah yes, the Head Girl," he sneered, "How does it feel, Granger, to hold a position of power? Does it thrill you? Does it scare you? Do you abuse it? Do others envy you?" He was getting closer. Too close, "Don't be so sure that you are loved by all for jealousy turns even the meekest to villainy. But don't let my words make you paranoid, merely to caution you." He stopped, less than an inch from her face. His eyes travelled up and down, before resting on her eyes. He smirked, "Well, what are we waiting for? Go on, enjoy the spoils!"

One step, two steps she made, her eyes never leaving his. He didn't move, but just stared after her, in an infuriatingly patronizing way. She leaned down to pick up her bag, and slowly inched her way towards the Head Girl's room. She turned around to see Malfoy walking off, hands jammed, whistling nonchalantly. As if feeling her eyes on his back, he turned around. He stared at her for a moment before making a "shoo" motion with his hands and mouthing, "_Go_."

Letting out a '_humph', _Hermione thrust her nose in the air and turned resolutely towards her dorm and set off, never looking back. Once inside her dorm, she tossed her bag carelessly into the corner and flopped onto her bed.

Hermione Granger hated Draco Malfoy.

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**Estelle Says: Well, Hermione is back! Yay! To be completely honest, I don't like this chapter. I don't like the way I wrote it, and I'm concerned that I A) introduced Hermione too soon, or B) Had some Draco Hermione action too soon, and too abruptly.**

**I'm also concerned I made Blaise sound like an idiot. He isn't, trust me. He's a v. smart cookie.**

**And I know you want to know who Lucius's killer is, don't you? Well, I'm not telling. I know you find out almost immediately in _Hamlet _but that's why this is _inspired _by _Hamlet, _not just like it. I'll let you guys try to figure it out. Oh, yes! I ams soooo happy from the feedback I got. Please send more, you know, constructive criticism, so I know what to fix. Oh, yes, I'm sorry for any typos. FanFiction deletes random words and letters when I upload documents. I think I fixed them all, but might've missed some. Sorry!**

**This may be the last until after Christmas since I'm going out of town. So, Merry Christmas you guys!**

**Love, Estelle**


	4. In the Dead Vast and Middle of the Night

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Still.**

* * *

**In the Dead Vast and Middle of the Night**

_**All is not well;  
I doubt some foul play. ---Hamlet, by William Shakespeare. Act I scene ii.**_

* * *

_The Elixir of Illusion, said to cause the drinker to have temporary lapse of judgment, is one of the most difficult to brew. A careful eye must be trained to the cauldron at all times. Anything short of meticulousness will result in injury. Once the water in the cauldron reaches a temperature of thirty seven point seven degrees Celsius, begin by adding exactly seventeen spoonfuls of salamander blood. Wait three seconds between each spoonful to let the blood simmer. _

"Hey, Hermione?"

_Add _very carefully_ seven bundles of Jobberknoll feathers (seven feathers in each bundle) tied with ginger root. Wait until the feathers are completely dissolved before stirring in a counter-clockwise fashion._

"Hermione?"

Bloody hell. _Sprinkle half a pound of porcupine quills into the cauldron. Make sure the colour of your mixture progresses from red to orange to an orange-yellow. Pay no mind if it starts to boil that just means it's ready for the next ingredient. Stir in a clockwise fashion._

"I don't know if…"

_It is, for the time being, hazardous to have physical contact with the potion. Please refrain from leaning over the cauldron._

"Ron, just wait until…"

_Add exactly three spider legs from three separate spiders, and stir in a sideways "Z" shape. The potion will remain an orange-yellow to all eyes but yours. In reality, it will be a dark blue. Do not let it fool you._

"Her-_mione_!"

_Let the potion set for twenty minutes._

"Yes, Ron?" Hermione asked warily. She looked up from the thick smoke her potion was creating and wiped some sweat from her brow. She could feel her hair begin to frizz.

"My potion, and Harry's, they're…it's…something's not right," he said, staring hopelessly into his cauldron. It was turning puke green. Sparing a quick glance at her setting potion, she walked around the table to her friends, one eye trained to the clock.

"How far did you get?" Harry spoke up this time.

"We got to three spoonfuls of salamander blood." Hermione peered into Harry's book, just making out some spidery scribbling.

"You mean," she said bitterly, "The _Half-Blood Prince _got to the salamander blood." Ron rolled his eyes.

"Hermione, _please_, that was last year--,"

"Don't start with me Ronald," she snarled, "I told you last year, Harry, not to keep that thing."

Harry had the grace to look sheepish, at least. "But Hermione, all it did was _help_. So what if it belonged to—Snape?" He dropped his voice at that last word. Hermione's eyes automatically drifted towards Slughorn, then towards Malfoy.

"Many things, helpful at first glance, have more than one intention."

"But it's a book," said Ron, glancing sideways at Harry's textbook. Harry looked a bit puzzled, too. "What more could it do?"

Harry touched Hermione's shoulder, "It isn't like Tom Riddle's diary. This isn't a Horcrux. We've tested it, remember?"

Yes, of course she remembered. She did the tests. It's only fault was that its previous owner was the darkest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Hogwarts ever employed. But it wasn't about the book.

"Yes, you're right," she said, "It's just a book."

"Right, then." Ron clapped his hands together. "Are you going to save us from humiliation?"

Save them? She looked up at the clock. She had fifteen minutes.

"Yes, alright." They positively beamed as she reached for the salamander blood.

* * *

"Ten points from Gryffindor." Hermione was thoroughly exhausted. The boy she was reprimanding looked thoroughly pissed off. 

"But that's unfair!" He exclaimed, stomping his foot. He gazed longingly at the Screaming Yo-Yo now securely confiscated in the Head Girl's hand, "How could you take points from your own house?"

"How could you bring illegal items to school?" she demanded. Then she took a deep breath, she was getting a headache, "Listen, I didn't want to, but it's my job, OK? If you insist on getting into trouble, play with stuff like this around the Head Boy. Macmillan isn't opposed to taking points from Gryffindor."

The second year was clearly still upset. "Your job," he muttered, "Whatever." Hermione tucked the yo-yo into her bag as the boy trudged towards the Great Hall for dinner.

"And for goodness sakes, Peter," she called after him, "Don't just _take _things Ronald Weasley gives you!"

Oh, she would have words with him, tomorrow. He was a prefect for crying out loud! It was one thing to possess forbidden objects in school, but to give them to a student? Gods. She reached into her bag and brought out the yo-yo. Slipping her finger into the hole, she flicked her wrist, letting it go. Her brown eyes trailed in fascination as the yo-yo plummeted to the ground emitting a terrible sound, which seemed to shake the ground she stood on.

* * *

On her way back to her chambers, she made a detour towards the office of Argus Filch. She wanted to drop off the yo-yo before she went to bed. She prayed to whatever mighty power that be for Filch to have left to patrol the halls for any delinquents. For awhile now, she'd been slipping in, chucking whatever object she had confiscated in the drawer and left. That way, she had done her job without having to talk to him. Lately, he'd been asking for details on objects she brought in. Where they came from, who had it, when she picked it up. 

She didn't like to lie, but she knew that if Filch had names, he would create a vendetta on those poor souls. Plus, she couldn't lie. It was hard to keep a straight face while what ever words tumbled from her mouth were so blatantly untrue. What she needed was a face like Malfoy's. It was always stoic, blank. Even more so this year. She didn't know whether to file it as an effect of his father's death, or not.

I wonder how he'd fare at poker, she mused.

Filch's door was open just a crack, letting a soft yellow light to cut into the darkness of the castle. She looked in and could make out his hunched back. She would just bring it back tomorrow. It's not like he would believe her when she claimed she just found it, anyway. She backed up as slowly and quietly as possible.

"Skulking," said a voice, "Another undesirable habit of yours?"

She whirled around to see a shadow about five feet away from her. With a hasty, "_Lumos," _the flood of light pouring from her wand revealed the ominous figure of Draco Malfoy. He didn't look menacing, though. Only as if he brought bad news with him.

"Tell me," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking from the balls of his feet, to his heels, "Why would a Head Girl be slinking about, in the tranquillity of night?"

Hermione didn't want to do this waltz, tonight. "I'm not slinking."

"No," he said, not to her. "But it should be done more often. Night is cryptic, no? Its quiet allows the mind to open, to ponder theories kept in confidence by day."

Hermione remained silent. It takes two to tango.

"If not slinking, skulking, or decoding, what are you doing outside of Filch's office?" he asked, his attention once more on her.

She raised her chin, "I had confiscated something, and I was going to turn it in."

His grey eyes narrowed in thought, "Right, right."

Keeping her wand's light on him, she moved away wanting some quiet. Her headache was getting worse. She didn't turn her back on him, but turned her body to the side so she could still see where she was going, "It's past curfew, Malfoy. You should be in your common room."

"I should," he said distantly.

Without so much as a farewell, Hermione left him alone to his dance, which would be a solo.

* * *

**Estelle says: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I said I'd have it up after Christmas Holiday, but I didn't and I'm sorry! School started again, and I had college applications to finish. (I didn't get into my reach school). Anyway, I'm awful because I made you wait so long, and it isn't even that great of a chapter.**

**On the plus side, it's important. Well, it's important later. I initially had it longer, but I liked the way it ended here. The rest that was in this chapter wasn't fascinating, anyway. Oh, yes, if you haven't caught on, Hermione is like Ophelia. But in the play we saw from Hamlet's point of view, now I want to do it from Ophelia's. So most of the story is from Hermione's point of view. Look for Chapter 5!**

**Love, Estel****le**

**PS : I wanted to change the genre since it really isn't action/ adventure. Nor is it suspense or mystery. Any suggestions?**


	5. Remember Thee

**Disclaimer: I own naught.**

**Remember Thee**

**_Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! –Hamlet by Shakespeare. Act 1, Scene v._**

* * *

For some reason, Defense Against the Dark Arts had lost some of its lustre. Students seemed to have a noticeable wince every time the class was mentioned. The logical answer was that the teacher had been there for more than a year. Unnatural? The students of Hogwarts thought so, too. And as they milled about, waiting for the professor to open the door, their feelings of dread increased. The clichéd lightning and the predictable torrents of rain, did not help.

Leaning against the wall, between her two friends, Hermione reread the three foot bit of essay on the Lethifold. She wasn't sure if she had researched the correct environment. Was it or was it _not _tropics? She'd just decided that she was indeed correct the first time (Tropics) when someone nudged her in the ribs. Looking up, she saw Malfoy and Zabini making their way down the hall, sans Crabbe and Goyle. He still walked as if he _deigned _to attend this school. Cocky idiot. He and Zabini were immersed in conversation. It seemed Zabini was making suggestions, and Malfoy merely negating them all. As they passed, Ron growled, "Malfoy."

Usually there would be a snide remark, followed by threats, followed by punches, followed by a loss of points or detention. This time, however, Malfoy spared Ron a cursory glance. But he never hesitated in his step, nor did he utter a word to Ron or Harry. It was as if they didn't exist.

* * *

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle meandered along the hall after a very satisfying lunch. It consisted of sandwiches, apples, and a pie. Greg was talking about something inane and Vince was only half listening. Out of the corner of his eye, Vince spotted some thing shiny. Obviously, he stopped for further investigation. It was a Galleon. 

"And knocking the Seeker off the broom isn't grounds for a foul—Oi, Vince, what are you doing?" Greg stopped and turned to look at his companion, hunched over the stone floor.

Vince held up the coin for Greg to see. It was _very _shiny. He tossed the coin, caught it, and looked, "Heads," he said. He tossed it again, "Heads."

"Are you even _listening _to a word I say?" demanded Greg.

"Come on, Greg, I bet you this coin will land on heads. Double or nothing." Vince held out a handful of Sickles.

"Well, alright," said Greg, reluctantly. Really, it seemed to _sparkle_. Vince grinned and tossed the coin. It was heads.

"Three for me, then," He took the coins from Greg and pocketed them. His friend frowned. Three in a row? He snatched the coin from Vince and examined it. It was legitimate, a real Galleon—even if it was a bit dirty. He chucked it at Vince.

"Do it again," he commanded, "No—wait, let me do it." He snatched the coin back and tossed it.

"Four in a row, hand it over," said Vince gleefully. Having raised enough money for some Sugar Quills, he put his coins safely in his bag, and resumed the coin tossing.

"Come on, Vince, we have to go. We'll be late and he'll have our—,"

"Heads."

* * *

"Draco."

Draco raised his head from his bed and looked around. He really wanted a nap. Vengeance was exhausting, you know.

"Draco."

"What," he snapped, "Whoever it is, bugger off. I'm tired." Sodding idiots.

"Draco that is no way to speak to your father."

The cloud of fatigue dissipated immediately and Draco sat up completely awake. His eyes travelled the mildly depressing room until they fell on a painfully familiar figure. Lucius Malfoy.

"Father," he breathed.

Lucius walked (well, hovered) towards the bed, "Yes, recognize me as such. Recall my recent and wicked death."

How could he not? It plagued him night and day. Constant whispers in the back of his mind, replaying that awful moment, _your father is dead_. It didn't stop. Murmurs, impish voices telling him, coaxing him. Avenge, kill, "I do."

Lucius nodded distractedly, "Good, good," He hovered towards some books, examining each one. "Know that the snake who slay me has copious and beguiling purposes." This was his last chance. His son must know the truth. Only the truth would prevent his memory from being tarnished.

"You mother? She is well?"

"Yes," Draco answered tersely. As well has she can be, gallivanting throughout the country, accepting the company (in all senses of the meaning) of men under sun _and _moon. Wench.

Lucius exhaled and suddenly looked broken. As if that sigh expelled all airs of aristocracy. He was now just a man. A man who lost everything. "Draco, I now take my leave."

Draco paused for a moment. Leave? So soon? "I know."

"Do not forget me," He looked his son dead in the eye, "Do not let my memory fade from these pages. Whether in the middle, front or back, keep me in your thoughts—and your heart."

The younger Malfoy didn't trust his voice to speak, so he just nodded his head. Already, Lucius was fading. He was moving on. "Please, remember me as I was in life. And not towards the end." He was barely visible, and his voice sounded weak. What last vestiges of this great man was now nothing but a shadow.

"Rest, Father," Draco closed his eyes. He could still hear the dimming pleas. Silence. Then an impact so fierce, that no amount of sorrow and pain could measure up to this new loneliness. All traces of complacency had been forsaken.

Lucius was gone.

* * *

"That's seventy five, then" said Vince, glancing at the coin. "A bit odd, eh? Seventy five times in a row; and landing on heads?" Greg, quite irritated, only rolled his eyes and continued walking, "Where are we going, again?" 

"Do you not remember," Greg spoke through gritted teeth, "We were summoned to Professor Snape's office?"

Vince blinked. It did seem vaguely familiar. _Are you Vincent and you Gregory?_ "So, why are we going?"

"I don't bloody know," Greg hissed, "We were summoned and we're going. The end."

"Fine, fine," Vince picked up the coin and flipped it, "Seventy six."

* * *

_Splash_

Blaise threw another rock into the lake, trying to skip it. Make it jump on the water. It just sank. He wanted to keep moving, also. The chilly October weather was starting to get to him. It was still drizzling a bit, but he wasn't soaked through—yet. Draco was, as per usual, pacing. "I got a letter from my mum."

"And?" said Blaise. Draco thrust out the letter, and Blaise perused it. It was impersonal. Distant. Spoke about his mother's happenings since the funeral. Her trip to Paris. Her trip to Venice. Her trip to Greece. She was entertaining more. Visiting the Parkinsons, the Dolohovs. She went shopping. The Notts came to visit, Snape came to visit. It was fluff. "Oh," was all he said.

"It's disgraceful," said Draco

Blaise set a careful eye on his friend. These were testy waters we are travelling on. Plot one course and one course only. "Maybe it's her way of mourning."

"Mourning," Draco deadpanned, "Mourning with frivolity? Mourning by overlooking the memory of my father? Wretched."

Let the sails down. Do not try to harness the wind. "Remember the plan," _Splash,_ sink. "Damn."

"I saw Lucius, again," Draco said casually.

Blaise scoured the ground for a nice, flat rock, "Really?" Honestly, how is it no one else can see Lucius? He picked up a stone and tried to skip it. The damn thing sank, again.

"He said goodbye," Draco's voice sounded strained. It was croaky and thin. Like he swallowed a handful of salt, "He's moved on."

Blaise stopped for a second. He glanced at his friend. Gales with too much force could be our downfall. Though, with no gust, we would be stranded. "He's--?"

"Gone. For good," Those words felt like sand, "He asked about my mother's well being."

We would be at the mercy of the sea. Our choices stolen, our volition destroyed. Blaise kicked a particularly large stone.

"He was concerned about her," Draco mumbled, "He thought of her in his last moments, and she has all but forgotten him." Blaise picked up the stone and chucked it. It skipped.

It's all a risk, isn't it?

* * *

**Estelle says: Wellity, wellity, wellity. Je suis desolee. This took longer because I really had no idea how to write it. Um, it's pretty obvious who Lucius's killer is. If it isn't clear, then I have severely overestimated my skills as a writer (which I probably have).**

**So, I decided to change the genre to Angst. Just because. Well, this story is turning out a bit darker than I originally planned it to be. I wanted to make this a happy _Hamlet_. But no, something about tragedies make them tragedies for ever. Pas de light heartedness. **

**That was me butchering the French language. It might happen some more. Just because it's fun. I know how to speak it, honestly. I'm in AP French. But I digress.**

**When I finish this, I'm thinking something happier. My next story, I mean. Since I feel like cutting myself every time I think about this one.**

**Anyway, I want to thank some people who have added this story to their story alert list. **

**In no particular order:**

**Kokey**

**ThisNiteLast4Evr**

**TwighlightPrincess44**

**What else is in the teaches of Peaches**

**Your Mom Is My Heart**

**elixirgurl**

**fancy-bread**

**superelle**

**sweet.sonata**

**You guys are really brave to read (and continue to read) this train wreck. God bless.**


	6. Murder Most Foul

**Disclaimer: One day, hopefully, I shall rule the world.**

* * *

**Murder Most Foul**

**_The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,  
That ever I was born to set it right! – Hamlet by William Shakespeare Act I, Scene v._**

* * *

There he was, _again. _It's almost as if he's above the concept of curfew. Not only that, but he was always in that same spot, sitting in the same position, harassing that poor portrait. It was becoming more and more frequent. And frankly, Hermione didn't know why she put up with it.

She also didn't understand why it surprised her. This was almost more predictable than her period.

And why he kept coming back. With that same, unbeatable intensity. Question and answer. That's all it was.

Tonight, he was sitting against the stone wall, drumming his fingers on his knees. _Pointer, middle, ring, pinkie. _Like always. Well, not really, Hermione thought idly, the first time he was pacing. Unconsciously, she slowed her power walk to a stride. Each step reverberated off the walls, into her ears and dissolved into the dark. She approached him, slowly and silently. He was sitting in front of her entrance. Again. "Excuse me," she said, as always. He lifted his wand, muttering '_Nox'_. He remained resolutely silent until she did the same, engulfing them in the dark. The labyrinth of night expelled all complications of day. They could speak in peace.

He raised his eyes, never looking at her. She could feel it. Always glaring at the wall, "A query," he said.

It was always a query. It was always something philosophical and mundane. _Should one forgive? Is there only one way to grieve? What happens after death? _How was she supposed to answer that solidly?

And they _way _he asked it. Oh, how he asked it compelled her to answer it and answer it well. Song of the Siren, she mused. She sat facing him, but not looking. They were, in a sense, strangers, and therefore no intimacy ever trespassed.

She remembered last time, three nights ago. He had asked, what do you think on vengeance?

She had answered in complete honesty that vengeance was useless. Anyone who seeks vengeance was weak. _An eye for an eye leaves the world blind._

And for murder? He asked.

Trials, she had answered. If a life is ended unnaturally, the killer must be punished.

Technically, that is vengeance.

No, it is _justice_.

And he left it at that.

Tonight, he didn't wait for Hermione to reply before pressing on, "Last time, you said that we should seek justice and not vengeance. Justice and vengeance. What is the difference?"

Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it, and then opened it again. "Justice," she said, slowly, "is moral. It is fair, and punishment well deserved. Vengeance is not. To seek revenge for a wrong not having been brought before court is unfair to whomever you are inflicting your wrath."

He nodded thoughtfully, or so Hermione surmised. She could practically hear the debate tumbling throughout his head. _Justice and vengeance_.

"Justice is righteous," he said, finally.

"Justice is lawful," she said, nodding.

"And so," he spoke, his voice no longer thoughtful, but pressing, "If I were to avenge some one dear to me by murdering their killer, I would be seen as malicious, not righteous?"

"Yes."

"But if I take it to court, and have them sent to Azkaban, I would be seen as righteous and not malicious?"

"Yes."

"And if, in the end, they are destined for the Kiss, their fate would be essentially the same as if I'd killed them myself?"

She paused. "Yes?"

He was quiet for a second. "Then why can't I kill them myself?"

"Because it's _wrong_!" she exclaimed, waving her arms, "He hasn't been tried by his peers and convicted in the eyes of the law!"

"Leave it to you to be concerned with the _law_," he muttered, most assuredly rolling his eyes, "But just think about it," she heard him shift, probably leaning forward to emphasize his point, "If it _is _the same, I don't see what morals have to do with it."

Hermione groaned and buried her head in her hands. "But it _isn't _the same."

This was how it went, every time. He was never satisfied with her answer. It wasn't until after he left, that Hermione came up with a really good reply. The first time he visited her, _what happens after death_, she had tried to approach him in the library. She had an answer, a really good answer.

But he would hear none of it.

He had set the stage that day. He had looked her in the eyes. Those eyes of steel, those eyes shining with contempt. Talk to me again, and I will kill you, he said.

Cold. Eyes so cold and voice so sharp. It was too close, too familiar. Too many emotions corrupted them. Too much history, too much knowledge.

That was the problem with daylight; they could _see. _

She got the feeling that, slowly, they were unlocking secrets. That they were opening doors to questions time had forgotten. It was thrilling, if not horrifying.

Oh, Harry. Oh, Ron. If only they knew. She had tried, ad infinitum, to engage them. _Should you forgive those who have wronged you? _

I'd never forgive Voldemort, said Harry. Hermione tried to look in his eyes, but they were squinted almost shut, because of the sun.

He shook her from her thoughts, "And if justice fails?"

Hermione frowned. "Justice failing--,"

"Yes," he said, "Corruption. Bribery. Blackmail. They all could weave ropes so tightly, that justice no longer has free reign."

Hermione thought of the Ministry. Thought of Umbridge, and Fudge. The Age of the Imperius Curse. "Lies," he continued, "Or biased thoughts. Should that happen, I would feel vindicated in my revenge."

Hermione sighed. "And what would that accomplish?"

He smirked. Even though she couldn't see, she could so _tell _that he was smirking. "I would be satisfied," he said. Then he stood up to go. Hermione did as well, as usual. She waited until the _Lumos_, the concrete end to their warped assembly. His wand glowed and lit the hall in which they were standing. They stared at each other until he sneered and spoke in a glacial voice, "Granger."

She raised her chin, "Malfoy," she said coolly. She remained where she stood as he turned on his heel and left, taking the light with him. As always.

It was ridiculous.

* * *

"Crabbe," said Snape, nodding to Greg, "And Goyle." He nodded to Vince, "I've called you, under confidence, for we share a similar concern." Vince and Greg sat in straight back chairs, in the depressing office.

"Concern, sir?" asked Greg.

"Yes. You see," Snape stood up and walked around his desk, "Lately, I have been worried about young Mr. Malfoy."

"Why?" asked Vince.

"Have you not noticed his odd behaviour, lately?"

The two frowned. Well, of course they had. He was quieter, he was spending more time with Blaise lately, they noted with a tinge of envy, and he wasn't eating much—and that was saying something. They nodded. Yes, he was behaving rather oddly, wasn't he?

"So, I have a favour of high importance for the both of you," said Snape, walking towards Vince and Greg, "It's simple, really. Just find out what's troubling his mind. It should be no problem seeing as you are so close to him."

"Blaise is closer," muttered Vince.

"I would really appreciate it," said Snape, smiling—or grimacing. Depends on how you look at it.

"We would be honoured," said Greg with much bravado.

"Excellent," said Snape, clapping his hands together, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must write a letter to Mrs. Malfoy. She's as worried as we are." The two nodded, and shuffled out of Professor Snape's office.

"So," said Vince, digging in his pocket, "What do we think?"

Greg stopped and turned to his friend, "We?" he repeated thoughtfully, "I think that we now have a burden on our shoulders to help our friend."

"And how do we go about that?" asked Vince, tossing his coin, "Heads. Ninety-two."

Greg frowned. "How utterly impossible. Ninety-two times heads? This contrasts with the law of probability."

"Heads"

"It is well known that probability is a factor in all natural forces in this natural world"

"Heads"

"Unless, of course, probability is not a factor at all…"

"Heads"

"Then we are," Greg paused, thinking, "Not in a natural world."

"Heads"

"Vince!" Vince stopped tossing and looked up.

"What?"

"Discuss," said Greg, "If we took six first years, dropped them from the Astronomy Tower, the chances of them landing on their arses should be equal to their chances of landing on their…"

"Heads," he said, looking at the coin, "Getting a bit old, isn't it?"

"Vince," said Greg, incredulously, "This doesn't bother you?"

"Bother me?"

"That all proven scientific facts are being disproved with this simple game?"

Vince looked at the coin in his hand, "Disproved?"

But Greg wasn't really listening, "Curious, isn't it, that the fingernails grow after death?"

"As does the beard," said Vince.

"What?"

"Beard!"

Greg frowned, "But we're not dead."

"No," said Vince as if talking to a two year old, "But I didn't say they grew only after death."

"Oh," said Greg, "But fingernails grow _before _birth. Though the beard doesn't."

"What?"

"_Beard!_ What's the matter with you?"

"Oi!" called a voice. They turned around. It was some Hufflepuff with a Head Boy badge, "What are you two doing?"

"We could ask you the same thing," said Greg, coolly.

"Well as Head Boy," he pointed unnecessarily to his badge, "I'm allowed to dock points to anyone out past curfew."

"Well if you _must _know," said Vince, "We were just leaving Professor Snape's office, he wanted to see us. He's our Head of House," he pointed unnecessarily to his green and silver tie.

The Hufflepuff narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Then what were you doing now? You weren't heading back when I found you."

Greg cleared his throat. "We were tossing coins. For money," he held out the coin, "How about it? Double or nothing it's heads." He tossed the coin and it fell to the floor. He looked up and the Hufflepuff was gone. "Where'd he go?"

Vince bent down and picked up the coin, "I say, that was lucky," he held out the coin to Greg, "It was tails."

* * *

Severus Snape sat by the waning candle light, writing his letter to Narcissa. Or trying to. He didn't know how to put it on paper—his feelings that is. It was so hard. He felt he should begin with his condolences. For the loss of her husband.

No, that wouldn't do at all. How was one to start a relationship built on lies?

It simply wasn't done.

He could write, under the pretence of her son. _Dear Narcissa_—no, wait,--_Dear Mrs. Malfoy_—or was it _Ms, _now? His ink well tipped and spilled all over his parchment. Oh, no no! Now he'd have to start all _over_!

He ruffled through his drawer for a blank sheet, casting a glare at the poorly lit candle.

_Dear Mrs. Malfoy…_

Now what? Should he explain Lucius's murder? Was she at all curious?

It really wasn't his fault! They were Dumbledore's orders—kind of.

He sat scribbling. He wrote about Draco, he wrote about the Ministry, he wrote about the War, he wrote about Hogwarts.

The dying light went out.

It's what is between the lines that matters, right? What he really wanted to say, left unwritten, but oh so obvious.

Severus sat in the darkness, thinking. He was finished. He thought it over. What did he write? What did he _long _to write?

_I love you, I love you, I love you_

It was quiet. Too quiet. Lies and guilt ate at his skin. Memories, oh the memories! Laughing at him, teasing him. Words, words, words. Whispered words. _Avada Kedavra. _

_What are you doing here?_

And, oh, that dreadful silence! What he didn't say that day was still tearing at his throat.

He didn't look surprised at all, Lucius. He merely raised his eyebrows and smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He knew all along.

_You bastard_

Severus shook his head. He reached into his robe and pulled out his wand and muttered, "Lumos." A small pool of light surrounded the desk and the wand emitted a faint hum.

He signed the letter and went to sleep with a clear head.

* * *

****

Estelle says: I'm baaack!

**Ok, so, the story is finally coming together, and it won't be super long. This one is pretty important.**

**About the story: Crabbe and Goyle have a fairly big role. Why? Because I like them. Their importance to the plot isn't nearly as great as it is for my brain. I've been doing a lot of thinking and, as per the request of my English teacher, I have decided to include motifs and themes about things I find important. That's where Crabbe and Goyle come in. You can figure them out if you want. They are there not only for humour, but to make you think. Well, they make me think. Writing their stuff is the most fun for me. And no, I didn't make them incredibly stupid because I don't think they are. They just don't apply themselves.**

**Because really, in other stories they make Crabbe and Goyle so stupid, I don't know _how _they live.**

**There's another theme/motif in the story that is REALLY obvious. It's woven throughout all of the characters, but mostly Draco and Hermione.**

**Speaking of the lovely couple, don't be confused about them. It is a Dramione, despite how dark and twisted I'm making it.**

**And if you don't know who killed Lucius by now, I'm killing _you_.**

**Now, the chances that you guys will actually read this is slim to none. But nevertheless, don't blame me when you get lost. I'm here to _help_ you. **

**Cheers!**


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